"I'll have my cot in here," said Spurlock to Ruth, "where this table is. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. It became a sort of duel at last between them, and all the others sat and listened—every one, that is, except the Alderman, who had got the blond young man into a corner by the green-stained dresser with the aluminum things, and was sitting with his back to every one else, holding one hand over his mouth for greater privacy, and telling him, with an accent of confidential admission, in whispers of the chronic struggle between the natural modesty and general inoffensiveness of the Borough Council and the social evil in Marylebone. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. There was no marriage, and I hated, oh, how I hated the man. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer.
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